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your scent we need to sample,
god, I'm sorry, we have to critique
what we can get, say, let me tell you
don't wear that which only blends

don't believe you're nothing special

Edit

You wore legwarmers
and Chuck Taylors

and I don't have any recollection of who this was regarding,
I just opened a recent document and found an observation.
Maybe she will visit me in my sleep.
Maybe she already did.

obsolete frills

I don't need to win

it's a matter of convincing self I don't want to win

frozen stoic or heated elements

some canvas will burn

not as symbol, but as lesson 

can progress/stillness show if there is no show

evidence is a category which proves irrelevant, 

as one cannot diagnose a state of consciousness

you maybe are, is, be

may be considered as,

organic matter, 

(like no one already knows this,

well I mean the way some o'you strut onward

because you really are not aware, but ashamed)

can't live your life asking questions all the way?

what are you here for? what do you hear for?

I fancy removing your ears, it won't hurt

you abuse sound and torture your insides

you can tolerate it.

maybe you'll yak less.

August light

Kind of craving these rays

Bazar Bizar in Belgium

wo zu gehen, unfertige

washed up waste while your washing wastes
you toss around resource and dismiss primitive utility
a renewable you which, so unnoticeably, is decaying all the same
Your preservation will fail because you lack regard for antiquity
Some could take a tongue lashing but your territorial bull
shit
will repel and we're left to pray (nature forbid) for your spawn's brains if you don't let us in

Gregari

Grant me a thing 

of praps social excellence

'n I might not give a wonder

cos it's established it's not gon change

Blurred Florence

35mm, Oregon coast, no edits, Sept. 2013. Lovely weekend in a lovely place with an old friend and her family.

Gemurmel

afraid of my shadow
luzluminating the edges of my lashes and speckled intake are meltng m

Dehydration

Chapped delusional lips manage to squeak in questioning of how one could turn art into a lifestyle but one cannot claim their lifestyle is art. Some movements mean more than the average room-cruiser aimlessly stirring the current of what used to be a still space, each breath fully distinct from the next and still every notion goes discredited. How does one know when they're in the right place in the wrong time? Or the wrong place at a time-telling challenge intended to cleanse you and you're ingesting it wrong. Shameful sloth.

Make friendly

of oneness and continuity, a venture in essence.

allow the ocean's representation,

observe purely justified ardor and sincerity

because these legged containers are the means of dynamism 

perception is waving

stillness is ever fleeting.

hold the door, don't you enter this warped corridor
it might dissolve behind you.

Nay this
reverse the rusting
and bring me to a station east,
after those rail rattling,
gear grinding vessels
that I chase beside trails, surreptitious behind stumps, trunks
catching light in the evening which passengers
mistake for having slipped
I linger between each coach
watching you try to sleep.

Brine

By torchlight quiver

hours flicker to their snuff via

divine waters which

lap to tease my roots

I am timid by your approach

and your frigid span,

I hover these slabs

always slightly elevated and I'm feeling

but in rays of color.

Audubon

This pond used to mirror the shade

which keeps it ominous and purely reflective

hiding something we aren't meant to greet

perhaps with stealthy pace or gnashing teeth

It's now a carpet I'm afraid to approach,

how deep I could plunge as a hatch may

open in the planks under a rug

The sea-sage fibers would wrap me,

probably tactically

I can already feel the gentle whipping of 

creatures tails I still fail to see

May this sheath crumble with my

struggle and peace come with full lungs

Clarifying prior curiosity as all memory

flashes and dissipates

The final exposure wound from ear to ear

captures this still community, exhibiting

colors I could not perceive before this release

Gracefully attained I freeze

becoming muck in a village

I would cling to the fallen twigs in wisps 

if one day it should dry up

AND IF THE EMPEROR SPOKE

"I am security. I am the very personification of force. When I am speaking inside you, you understand that weakness does not exist. As long as you have not seen me, you will know only insecurity. You will not have the power to make or do anything, to express or resist yourself: you are a victim. But in my presence your fears are over. You will cease to doubt and devalue yourself. No one can force you to do what you do not wish to do."


Your immense force keeps me rotating.

And the salmon sings in the street

Sunday afternoon in Gambetta

I did not feel the surreal magic expected of Paris, only a sort of reality that could never be found elsewhere and that is something impossible to describe, much more magnificent

Ritaðar

Here's making something from nothing
in a forest so dense I've carefully chosen shelter
Living is a walk in the woods within which are no manmade paths
You hit a vast field, you enter the density you seek in the distance. 
You reach water, you cross this, into territory without expectation. 
Every decision you make leads you into depths you'd struggle to predict.
Go blindly but prepared and you will not find what is meant to come into being- it will find you.
It is written.

Severed hands on the porch

There were 4 or 5, and they were proportionate though a tenth of the size you'd consider normal. There was a little mess of blood and I was worried I needed to sweep them away into the bush, a neighbor was walking up the steps toward me.

I walked around the corner in the right place at the right time to see a news reporter speaking into a camera. A small crowd had gathered and I went into the street to see from a clearer path... 10 or 12 young women, all dressed similar, were laid on the street in a circle almost as the rays of the sun. Each had a gun in her hand and a hole in her stomach. One or two were being taken away on gurneys, a few were still breathing or struggling to speak, most were clearly drained of life. It was evident they did this to themselves though I instinctually felt they were influenced by something or someone, an idea or possession they couldn't evade that had led to this cult-like organized suicide. I think the man who owned the house where I found the hands was involved.

I come home one night to an apartment where I live alone, I've been there a long time but it was new to me in the dream. High ceilings, spacious, and a comfortably personal tone to the color throughout. There is a wall behind the dining table that had been pushed back, opening to these mysteriously lit halls lined with shelves, and on these all sorts of trinkets, antiques, mostly glass items. Every time I try to get back there someone comes to the front door, people I don't recognize but I know somehow that I have business to take care of. After some time it has become a party and I become impatient but accept that, as the host, I need to loosen up... I go to the kitchen for something, probably to get a drink, and there are three girls in the doorway talking with beers in hand. As I approach they turn my direction and the face of the girl in the center starts to morph subtly, three extra eyes form on her face, and as she looks at me they blink but not all at once.

Photo by Chema Madoz

All I want

Fourth floor

Crying over coffee

I find myself uncomfortably often wondering what the fuck are words trying to do? And who do they impress or fool?
It seems everything imaginable has been overdone and desensitized and I'm feeling more unsettled than ever, forgive the rant but it's hard to create anything new.
It's alright to at least have something to look forward to, but what to do for now, I'll find something, maybe I'm capable

Caught by the saxophone in the street

Thank you Charles, we appreciate this encounter and your lovely work! You can see through his lens here.

 

I carry myself

When I get down I'll remember all of the ignorant or discouraging remarks I'd hear regarding plans for my future when I was young and remind myself that none ever hindered a venture

Edinburgh, Scotland

I could write folk songs but you'd remind me they've all been done

If the cost of living where I'd like to be in Belgium is not much different, why do I remain here? I couldn't make anything better here for myself or those around me, I don't have a real role, and with that I am content. It's (very) apparent that I can handle distance from what I'm comfortable with. I didn't want to come home, I very much miss the road with interesting, dear company rolling through every day as each hour brought surprise in whatever amount. My eyes and legs ache to feel every corner I haven't turned yet.

To green and feeding, seething for greening
Figuring foolish feeling
Creepily cruel impeding
and I'd retained 3 reckonings

Budapest

In

Inverleith House, Edinburgh, Scotland

Not a word come from nothing

every love and discoveries ignited
I've been waiting for the next song to begin
I've heard this one too many times

Drunken Arturo in the plaza with the lingering handshake

Never can I erase from my mind the image of the birds within the gated side of the San Francisco monastery in Lima, pigeons or doves, I can't be sure, an incredibly massive crowd.
And you'd never see so many human bones in one hour... or your lifetime perhaps... until you are placed in a plane of decomposure already long inhabited, then you can feel that eerily pleasant vibe.

Present

The least I can do is enjoy whatever time I know I can't spend working, maybe I want to be physical and thoughtful without driving myself to a sweat every time as an attempt to forget why I'm still here. Repeating "I can handle anything, I can do anything" isn't enough and neither is outside encouragement and relating to others is just what pushes me farther from feeling comfortably human, and I'm trapped with limited language even among such vast vocabulary. Teetering imbalance from something to nothing, no one to someone, civilized self to primitive creature. I'm static, reception fleeting I am never human for long enough to learn a skill or a fact, or the history of one place, I retain the knowledge that I forever FEEL beyond words

Thoughts don't push lately

Poisoned daily encounters
chemical product or brain behind another face
hard to decide which to prefer
equally toxic and intimidating
it didn't used to be this way, though it's sporadic
and probably forever expected

Tuned into the wind

Couple hours idealized or hypothesized
end with nothing to show for shit but empties and rearranged mess
needs got rid this
english fail
nightly!
creep through my slumber you're invited
to interpret what you please but don't be halted by absolutely timid character born of frustration and genetically unstable ingenious fueled by frequent tilt
this is intermittent babble
to be made into series perhaps worth a maneuver
maybe your promethean brain can already navigate the tunnels
carve through that wall of intrigue
and discover layered prehistory.
we know, we know exactly how to speak the language
in probability written by us.

geta ekki / heyra

what does this make for but amplified paranoia and schemes and task after do after meant to
sure that shiny globe gleaning in the corner the equator grinning revolving to prove a point
the deficiency of angularity at the same time precisely mapped with ridge and flume
pulsating couloir
's all souring but what's altered time and retracted focus within a frame
's what's most noteworthy

You seek the bottom of the glass still dependent on words you hope'll come
And then you think- whoa- whoa what've I ever done

And you're either discouraged or motivated by the success of others?

hands don't look human

really what do I do with you?
insanity afloat I enjoy it so
there's nothing I can say
I haven't stated before

I move fluidly

Language

"The Tarot is an optical language, and it’s like a meter: It says, “What do you ask?” Tarot is not speaking with words; it says you should think with dreams, with intuition. The unconscious is not a language we speak like the conscious; unconscious we speak with actors, with image, with sounds, with colors. This is the language of Tarot."

Alejandro Jodorowsky

"Moon brains"

we fill in each other's voids
it's been written and I'm sure,
we will alter in tendency
having earned places in time

and as much as I won't make sense, I am content to just have half of the mind I need to carry

I try to rhyme

You're a cool swallow down my spine
or a soothing bundle wrapped in twine
Christ-like you're just so fine

Repair the unraveling

Keep cozy your dependencies
and so the ghost don't chill
you wouldn't want that.
A tense caliper creeping the edge
numb fingers and I worry for the blood flow
and for all that I know

Cut me open anywhere and
collect what scrawl drips into tiny bottles
I'll tell you where to find those
Reutilize perhaps it to
write up what once I was
not to nudge you but you know, you're kind

-plasmic

A millino little particular cells of what can
be considered a life supporting vial of cloudy murk
to clarify
And fuck if I'm not going to suck that down and become transparent!
Take it all!
You can have my brain!
I'm sure I've made it plausible
I cannot put words to any little smidgen
not english anyway.
Hvað er athugavert við mig?
When will I put it in proper inglés?

Almost mystic in origin
has written to present
in an order to breathe
become cycle
hard functioning
allowing words rapid and fluid.
You ensure secure guidance through the sands
of time's expanse.

13 pairs of eyes

I set out on a quest as a challenge to make myself less uncomfortable and it's not working.
My problem is I feel way too much and act very little in reflection, being something much harder for my brain to live with over many others... forgive my ego, I am very self aware. Just awed and concerned. Maybe subconscious discipline maybe nothing outside of stubbornness, either are getting very fucking repetitive. Allow my belief in myself to take action.

Lemongrass

Everything is anything is it

we are far, far beyond esta lengua

enginn titill

I honestly hate this security in my vicinity
I make zero senses but who's reading anyway
the only audience I value can take what ever you want
if you're reading know I've been blatantly carelessly honest with you
you've done your part
being the best human
to say the least being the one thought reocurring
þú ert úr mönnum
and I owe you what I cannot yet capacitate
because I've yet again to feel your corporality I fancy
All I need to know is your rhythm.
I can trust I already have professed much
and so so thankful you don't mind
eilífi kerfuffle!

Eilífu þakklát
for your time you know this.
þú ert yndisleg.

One word is whiskey

another is glass

I have the ability to bend time to my advantage
though I can't speed this up any more possibly
I think I'd lose what's most important is that:
I should be focused more on what I'll learn from here on
One fucking day at once
I can't live a month in an hour
but I can stare at the sand in the glass
and gain from each grain something of wisdom
I probably shouldn't take advantage of

I can't help feeling the air around me so wrap me up in thick cloth and stuff me into a tomb already
because I can escape that I can do anything

Lucidity

Confirmation of a soul kind to mine
Your mind's vast continents
make up a world I'm just as lost in
I intuitively navigate this world without a map

Remembering something is an accomplishment

I have an impossible time retaining much.
I dreamed last night of my family and myself traveling but the only "scenes" available to my recollection took place in terminals and bus stations, between places of our interest. There was never difficulty and we got comfortable in any place. There was no hint toward what part of the world we were in, where we were meant to visit, I suppose it was insignificant. The image I remember best were the huge clocks I saw everywhere we were on the walls, they were singular in layout showing local time, which I never logged
If I've learned anything it's that the journey is worth more than the treasure itself
A reminder to stay strong enough to harbor my patience
Fortune enables my heart to keep pace and
speeds up every day
and I am anticipating motion.
Would I favor flipping the record over but looking through the same window
or repeating the same record looking through different windows?

July

calendars from 1984 and 1985

We can see how far it'll take us

No tender but bus fare
Don't stress it's at least this much closer
Was the glass really full and just drank from
or did you pour half to become that much less empty?

If yours is beating isn't that enough?
If you're anything isn't that enough?

Undated from the past/passed

I will always be fascinated by our surroundings, whether broad or inhibiting. Buildings are books. They're made of layers and a shell, and they're not much more but stories. Windows are the ideas provoked by the content. They expose minds and literal points of view.

Frosted glasses/Drink in pairs

You talk to your space neighbors
Having your tea in your skeleton suits
Ignoring the freeze of the dawn breeze,
admiring yesterdays work
behind their backs

The heat from the corner
toasts your sustained limbs
And you consider how long
til snapping every bite down
on your thoughts each time of day